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IH MEMORIA.M. 



ROBERT EMMETT ROBINSON. M. 1). 



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hci! mi.otvo fvatrr adtrnptc mihi!** 



Catullus. Cak.men lxviii 




NEW YORK: 

PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULxVTION 

MDCCCLXVI. 



:k2 



"At nigJit, like perl'unies that have slept 
All day within the wild-flower's heart, 
Steal out the thout^hts the soul has kept 

In silence and apart: 
And voices we have pined to hear, 

Through many a long and lonely day, 
Come back upon the dreaming ear, 

From (xrave-lands far away." 

T. K. HERVEY. 



PREFACE 



The object of this uiipretendino- little volume, coui- 
memonitive of the saddest event of its Authoi"'s life- 
time, w\\\ be too apparent to every candid and g-en- 
erous mind to require either explanation or apology. 
Yet it may not r)e amiss to state that it is intended 
to be given away, not sold. It has been printed sole- 
ly with a view to facilitate an exclusively private cir- 
culation among the relatives, friends, and such of the 
intimate acquaintances of the deceased as we feel 
assured will accord a ready and warm welcome to 
even so imperfect a memorial as it is, of one who was 
so eminently worthy of the various degrees of aftec- 



6 PREFACE. 



tioD, admiration, and regard which he inspired in the 
hearts of all those whom the ties of blood, choice, or 
chance l^rought within the sphere of his attractive 
iutluence and liberal hospitality. 

W. M. R. 

New York, September, 1866. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



I MUST here take occasion to make one more state- 
ment, which I consider especially due to her who occu- 
pied the nearest and dearest relation in life to the de- 
ceased, and w-ho, in virtue of such position, has claimed 
the exclusive privilege of sustaining the only portion of 
our joint undertaking which could, in any way, be 
deemed onerous. I allude to the cost of carrying out 
her own design. The idea of printing this little collec- 
tion of poems in its present form originated with hei\ 
and it was entirely owing to her urgent solicitation, 
backed by the persistent advocacy of other near rela- 
tives and friends, that I finally yielded a reluctant 
assent to a proposition involving such unequal allot- 
ments. I make this avowal in justice to each of us, as 



POSTSCRIPT. 



I could not consent to appropriate seemingly to myself, 
by the remotest possible implication, a larger share in 
this tribute to the living and the dead than strictly 
appertains to me. 

In regard to the " semioboli" of my own contribu- 
tions, mere " farthings in the currency of art," I cannot 
resist the temptation to quote the appi'opriate and 
happily-expressed sentiment contained in the quatrain 
with which the author of " Lyrical Recreations " * 
concludes his introductory lines to that charming 
volume of poems : 

'' Such coins a kingly effigy still wear — 

Let metals base or precious in them mix — 
The painted vellum hallows not the prayer, 
Nor ivory nor gold the crucifix." 



* By Samuel Ward, Esq. (New York and London: D. Appleton & Co. 
Boston : Roberts Brothers, 1865.) 



OBITUARY. 



OBITUARY. 



"Died, on Sunday eveninj?, the lOtli of December, 1865, in 
the city of New York, whither he had gone several weeks 
previously,* with a hope, though faint, tliat he might there 
derive medical benefit, Bobcr^t Emmett EobJnSOn, M. B., 
a native and resident of Petersburg, Virginia, in the flft-y- 
sixth year of his age, leaving an affectionate wife and son 
and daughter to lament their irreparable loss." 

The writer of the above simple notice, having intimately 
known the deceased ti-om his boyhood upward, could here 



* Should have been "months" instead of "weeks." He reached New 
York on the 31st of August, in the afternoon. 



12 OBITUARY. 



add much in the way of truthful testimony to the manifold 
sterling qualities, of both head and heart, Avhieh endeared him 
so eminently to a large circle of both relatives and friends ; but 
he is averse, in general, to long newspaper obituary articles. 
Nor is it at all necessary, on this present occasion, since he is 
permitted to use here the beautiful and touching tribute to his 
memory, with which the Rev. Mr. Cosby closed the funeral 
services at St. Paul's Church, on Saturday morning December 
16, previous to the remains being conveyed to Blandford, there 
to be laid in the old churchyard, beside those of his revered 
parents, and other loved ones who had gone before. 

The Reverend gentleman remarked : " Death has again 
invaded our community, and cast its black shadow across 
another threshold. Another family is overwhelmed in grief, 
and now, to-day, we come to bury Robert Emjiett Robinson, 
the friend, the brother, the husband, the father, the lover of 
music and poeti-y, whose easy elegance lent a charm to the 
social circle, and whose genial spirit secured the love of uiany 
friends. We bury his body in the old Blandford graveyard, 
and we write his name in the history of Petersburg, feeling 
assured that in the liearts of many here his memory will be 
most affectionately cherished. 



OBITUARY. 13 



" As ])ut yesterday I sat in Ids vacant study, anudst Lis 
books and music and paintings, snn-ounded by his weeping 
family, and as I listened to the utterances of tbeir artless and 
untutored grief, I felt that one wlio could win so ujuch love 
from those who knew him best, must have many warm per- 
sonal friends, and the respect of the world. The son of a 
patriot, wliose birthplace was the land of Kobert Emmett and 
Edmund Burke, he was endowed with many of the character- 
istics of this singular and often highly-gifted people. Emotional 
and generous, strong in his attachments, sympathetic in his 
feelings, he was at once the honored and loved head of his 
fanuly, and the pride and admiration of his friends. 

''He passed through many and various changes of spiritual 
life, l)ut amidst them all his tamily entertain the firm belief 
that he never lost his self-respect and reverence for the religion 
of his mother — and that, as he approached his death, he clung 
with a clearer and more settled faith to the Saviour of sinners. 
Thus they do not sorrow as those without hope ; and I rejoice 
for their sakes that they indulge the humble belief that on the 
last great day, when God, who knows the heart, and not weak 
man, shall be the jndge, husband and wife, father and daugh- 
ter, shall meet in a fairer and happier land, where music shall 



14 OBITUARY. 



6e without discord, and poetry without passiou — where talent 
shall exercise itself upon a nobler and higher theatre, and where 
genius shall always ally itself with divinity." 



TO MY BOOK. 



^0 :^Y ^;00K, 



• Go to the friend)? he loved of yore. 
And bear these simple lines from me, 
Which I have writ beyond the sea ! 
Thou wilt be welcome — nay, even more- 
For one dear name thy pages store 
Will make thyself a memory ! " 



OOK of my soul ! 'tis not in quest of praise 

\^ That now I send tliee from my solitude, 

o 
Where oft the voiceless record of thy lays 

Hath lured my spirit from its darker mood, 

And taught mine eyes in tenderness to gaze 

Upon a sorrow scarce yet understood ; 



TO MY BOOK. 



But in the hope that thou may'st do the same 
For others, when thej dwell upon the page 

Inscribed to One who might have earned a name, 
Had mortal blight not marred his ripening age, 

And snatched from earth, perchance, as fair a fame 
As e'er was writ by poet or by sage. 



ni. 



Ere lone; thou wilt attain the hallowed shrine 
By Love and Friendship reared in that far land 

Which once was his, and still is claimed as mine ; 
There many wait, with eager heart and hand, 

To clasp and cherish each memorial line 

Which, but for him, scant welcome might com- 
mand. 



TO MY BOOK. 19 

IV. 

So be it — while there throbs a single heart 
To treasure up, as misers hoard their gold, 

His loved remembrance — but when such depart. 
And unto colder ears thy tale is told, 

May Heaven deny thee not the simple art 

To keep his name undimmed by dust or mould. 



But thou and I have shaken hands 
'Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscovered lands." 



t^ ^ t^ /\ o J. 



' Heu ! quauto minus est cum reliqnin versari quam tui meminisse 1 " 
I. 

h T last it hath found us ! — tliat arrow of fate, 
^^^ Whicli only could wound us so sorely through 

thee, 
How long we have looked for it ! early and late, 

Yet it came not too soon for the soul it set free. 
When we counted the years of thy martyr-like 
pain, 
And thy patience, so calm in the depths of its 
woe. 



24 AT LAST. 

We were willing the bitterest clialice to drain 
To the dregs, if to thee it remitted one tln-oe. 

In the lees that are left us some solace remains, 
When we think 'twas ou7' treasure, not thine., that 
was lost, 

And at times the high soul of devotion disdains 
To reckon the price which thy freedom hath cost. 



Time passes, but brings us no more to remember — 

The future was given to thee as the past, 
When here — in this empty and desolate chamxber 

Thy record was finished — ah ! was it the last ? 
Forbid it, O God of the quick and the dead ! 

By the grief of to-day — by the fear of to-morrow — 
By the halo of hope which thy mercy hath shed 

O'er the darkest despair in its midniglit of sorrow ; 



AT LAST. 26 

By the anguish to think that the h:)ve we so treas- 
ured, ' 

80 longed for — so lived for — was lavished in vain, 
And that every thing dear is by life only measured, 

To mock us at last witli a measureless pain ! 

ni. 

How fondly we gazed on his face, as he lay, 

Death-crowned and pale as the flowers (»n his 
breast. 
And tenderly turning the long hair away. 

Kissed the lieautiful l)row of our dearest and 
best : 
Oh! painless release! truly blessed relief! 

By Heaven bestowed in the hour of liis need, 
With naught to regret save the thought of the grief 

Such a parting, he knew, to the living decreed. 



26 AT LAST. 

And should we not mourn for so tender a heart — 
So high, so devoted, so true and so tried? 

Of our beino; his love vv^as the loveliest part, 

And the light of existence seemed quenched when 
he died. 

IV. 

We know that the beauty of God's shining world 

Still weareth the hues that it ever hath worn. 
Its sunsets no banners of splendor have furled, 

And its pageants yet pass tln'ough the portals 
of morn ; 
Let Earth have her joys, be it ours in our grief 

To wait and to w^atch by " The Dark River's " 
shore, 
Whence, silent and swift as some air-wafted leaf, 

He floated away, to return never more. 



Al LAST. 2\ 

Who kiioweth the land of the shadow beyond, 
AppalHiig nhke to the good and the brave? 
Yet we feel, as we gaze on each Death-riven Ijond, 
, Tliis must be the desolate side of the Grave ! 



II. 



■§} UK 0. P E . 



"When we at death must part, 
How keen, how deep the pain ! 
But we will still be joined in heart 
And hope to meet again." 

HT. XXVn., VR8. IV. 

January lltk, 1864.* 

I. 

^Ffl^Y faltering lips refuse to frame 

For thee that bitter word, Farewell ! 
Nor dare essay to breathe a name 
Which in my heart must ever dwell. 
For 'tis not long since it became 
To me the saddest fimeral knell. 

* Vid. Note. 



32 OUR HOPE. 



II. 

With thee h'fe's music thou didst take, 
The tuneless chords alone remain, 

Which even the next light touch may break. 
So cruel and so harsh the strain, 

But naught on earth can ever wake 
Their truest, tenderest tones again. 

HI. 

Though Death and Darkness frown between 
Thy happier lot, to-day, and mine. 

We still are joined in heart, I ween. 
And in my soul that hope of thine. 

To meet again, glows like the sheen 
Of sunset on a ffolden shrine. 



III. 



fMBKA ^^DOHATA!" 



"Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?" 

Pleasubes of Hope. 

" 'Tis thy voice from the liingdom of souls 

Faintly answering still ." 

MOOBE. 



^ EMEMBER ! oh ! when do I not remember 'i 
From nisht till morn — from morn till even- 



tide- 
Alike in crowds and in my lonely chamber, 

Forgetting all the w'orld — ay — all beside 
One wretched evening in the gray December, 

Wlien, swooning in these arms, he sank and died ! 



36 MB HA ADO RAT A. 



II. 



Where is lie now, since Earth no longer knoweth 
The shadow of his form's commanding grace ? 

I ask the Stream that through the forest floweth — 
It smiletli only in its heedless race ; 

I ask the Wind that through the woodland hloweth — 
It scattereth grass and leaves upon my face ; 

III. 

I ask the summer Clouds above me sailing — 
They cast their silent shadows at my feet ; 

I ask the Ocean — and a mournful wailing 
My own far deeper plaint seems to repeat ; 

I ask the Night, her silver fringes trailing 

O'er tree and shrub — I hear^ — my own heart beat. 



O MBR A AD OR A TA . 37 



I fain would cast the shreds of hfe behind nie, 
If thus a blessing could be fairly won. 

And I were sure some future morn would Und me 
With him again — but lo I yon setting sun 

Throws me a parting glance as to remind me, 
And hints a hidden truth I may not shun. 



It seems to tell me that I am not keeping 
A fruitless vigil o'er his hallowed rest. 

And as I feel the gathering shadows creeping 
Up from that tomb around me — it seems best ; 

And Hope awakens from her long, deep sleeping, 
To strew with precious flowers my barren breast. 



38 OMBRA ADORATA. 

VI. 

O Spirit-voice ! that only hath existence, 
Perchance, in mimic dreams of memory. 

Like echo wafted from some dim blue distance, 
Thou callest faintly from afar to me ! 

While Woe, that baffles Reason's weak resistance. 
With tender tears alone can answer thee. 



lY. 



§UB ^STKIS 



' Never, dear , love can be 

Like the dear love I had for thee." 

L. E. L. 

' The better days of life were ours ; 
The worst can be but mine." 

Btron. 



3P)EACE to thy ashes! lost, lamented brother! 
'yvu^ Whom I have loved so long, so passing 

well— 
Ah ! hoM' we two have clung unto each other 

In life and death, but one is left to tell, 
Since thou wast called to join our gentle mother, 

No more aji-ain with us on earth to dwell. 



42 SUB AS THIS. 



n. 



Trustful and true were we, from first to last, 
Death sealed our mutual hope to meet again, 

The only precious thing I have not cast 

Into the depths when shipwrecked on the main : 

That will I treasure till the storm be past. 

Then gladlj lay me down where thou hast lain. 



in. 



To millions a mere corse upon the shore, 

A thing not fair to see, stretched on the strand 

Where they are strolling careless, — nothing more- — 
Not so to thee and that enfranchised band, 

Who in worth's precedence have gone before. 
And found, I trust, a higher, liappier land. 



SUB AST R IS. 43 



IV. 

Brother ! I would not, if I could, forget 

The light that with thee vanished from my life- 

In manj a dream 'twill be remembered yet, 
Despite the desperate struggle and the strife 

And all the wretched evils that beset 

My weary days, with toil and troul:»le rife. 

V. 

I must remember while I still remain, 

Reluctant, since thou couldst no longer stay. 

Where all tilings, once familiar to us twain. 
Pulsate the thought of thee, now passed away ; 

As many an orb in yonder glimmering train 
Reflects pale glimpses of the distant day. 



44 SUB AS THIS. 



VI. 



Now, while I view those chisterecl gems of light 
Dotting the veiled bosom of the dark, 

Thej seem to symbol, to the inner sight, 
A truth our grosser vision fails to mark ; 

As Day still triumphs o'er the deepest Night — 
Thus over Death the earth-lost vital spark. 



vn. 



It must be so — that sign of better cheer 
Was never sent our yearnings to deride ; 

I need no more to banish doubt and fear,— 
For what is left me now to lose, beside 

The beggared life that laid upon thy bier 
Its all of joy — of hope — of human pride ? 



V. 



Thoughts.* 



Ye voices that arose 

After the evening's close, 

And whispered to my restless heart repose ! 

Go breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and lear. 

And say to them. " Be of good cheer ! '" 

LONOrELLOW. 



FTER life's baffled dreams 
fely'' Something remains to us yet, 
Else why tliese mysterious gleams 
The spirit ~^can never forget. 
That flush on our musings, by night and by day, 
One ever-recurring, unquenchable ray? — 

* Vid. Note. 



48 THOUGHTS. 



II. 

A ray from some fomitain of light 

Afar in the Future that lies. 
Beyond the dim barriers of Night 
That compass Mortality's skies ; 
And we see by its glimmer our pathway of gloom 
Leading onward and upward beyond the pale tomb. 

ni.^ 

Oh ! what would the things of this Earth — 

All the pleasures and triumphs of yore, 
Of the present, or future — be worth. 
If the brightest and best were no more 
Than to live and to love, and to lose and to die, 
'Neath the smile of a placid and pitiless sky ? 



THOUGHTS. 49 



IV. 



Oh ! never for this liave we basked 

So long in the noontide of love ! 
The life that was lavished, unasked, 
Hath only been lifted above ; 
^o link can be dropped from our heart-woven 

chain 
Tliat will not be gathered and garnered again. 



Faith, like the Dove of the Ark, 

Springs forth from humanity's breast, 
Cleaving the void of the Dark 
In search of the place of her rest. 
Ah ! think you she leans on no pinion of might. 
And must perish at last in her perilous flight? 

4 



60 THOUGHTS. 



VI. 

Though Reason may fail to descry 

The pathway she follows afar, 
The instinct that conies from on high 
Guides truly the soul as the star; 
And the Spirit whose journey begins at the grave, 
Returns only home to restore what He gave. 



yi. 



■pUT or THE ^ K L D . 



"And our sorrow may cease to repine 

When we know that thy God is with thee." 

Byron. 



' T of the world at last ! 



^iP Escaped from all sorrow and pain, 



Joined to the Dream of the Past ! 

We may weep, but we should not com- 
plain ; 
Our grievous loss was thy infinite gain. 
And w^e know" that we cannot have loved thee in 
vain. 



54 OUT OF THE WORLD. 



For there's ever a feeling within, 

That wafts us beyond and above 
The sphere of our sorrow and sin, 
And the tomb of our bui'ied love ; 
And blest is the faith in a Power to save 
What reason so feebly resigns at the grave. 



HI. 

We may weep o'er thy vacant place, 

In the silence of chamber and hall, 

At the sight of thy life-pictured face 

That hangs on our desolate wall; 

But we feel in our sadness we should not complain, 

For soon we must follow and find thee again. 



OUT OF THE WORLD. 55 



Out of a world ot' wo3 ! 

Unspotted and fi-ee from its stain, 
Pure as untarnished snow, 
Thy spirit shall ever remain ; 
And sweet as the flowers that bloom o'er thy head 
Are the hopes that illumine the tears that we shed. 



VII. 



% E A » ! 



" Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea I 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Shall never come back to me." 

Longfellow. 



B 



EAD! dead! dead! 

The tiniest spear of grass, 
That scarce can rear its tremulous head. 

Hath more of life, alas! 
Than he who was, but yesterday. 

So loving — so true — so brave. 



60 DEAD! 

Ere the martyred spirit ebbed away, 
And the yellow sand and the dull red clay 
Were hollowed out for his grave. 



Dead ! in sooth 'tis a common word — 

Familiar enough to the ear, 
Except when whispered and wildly heard 

Of some one near and dear ; 
For the world hath but little leisure to waste 

On a grief not all its own. 
And rarely will turn in tender haste 
From the trodden path which its schemes have 
traced, 

For a brother's wayside moan. 



DEAD! 61 



ni. 



Dead ! dead ! — oh ! wliat doth it mean 'i 

An absence some must deplore ; 
A shadow less than we have seen 

Fallmg athwart the tloor; 
A vacant place — a blank forever ! 

A pulse now cold and still, 
A soul returned to the hand of its Giver! 
A perished loveliness that never 

Again our liearts shall fill. 



IV. 



Dead ! and lying in silence — alone ! 



And earth so busy and tree! 
The rivulet laughs at the laggard stone 
As it straggles down to the sea ; 



62 DEAD! 

The joyous bird carols loud in the brake, 

From under his leafy shield ; 
The wild-fowl circles above the lake, 
The golden bees their harvest make, 
And swallows skim the field. 



Dead ! dead ! dead ! 

Oh! pardon the sad refrain, 
For still we seem to sit by the bed 

Where he languished so long in his pain ; 
And the lapsing thought is lost in a trance 

Where nothing of life doth remain 
But a glimmering sense of a dire mischance 
And the pallid gleam of a parting glance 

That said, " We shall meet again ! " 



DEAD! 63 



VI. 



Oh! never, never more for him, 

And ever for ns in vain, 
Shall daylight dawn and eve grow dim 

On valley, hill, and plain ; 
Asleep in the shadows of endless night, 

AYe fold our hands in a dream. 
And tracing backward Time's lengthening fliglit 
To the last that we saw of our vanished light, 

Drift idlv down the stream. 



VIII. 



" Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 
For others' weal availed on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky." 

BYRON. 



Pakewell ! 



' The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread eternity, 

Eetiims again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years." 

By BON. 



COME to lay my last sad votive leaf 

Upon the turf that hides tliy lowly head, 
And though I feel a lifetime were too brief 
For all the tears a brother's love wonld shed, 
T mnst return anon in silent grief. 

To win from toil mv bitter dailv bread. 



68 FAREWELL ! 



n. 

How sweet it were, if shared with thee and thine ! 

It once was more when proifered by thy hand, 
For well I knew how much thv heart was mine, 

So oft it gently chid my slow demand ; 
Thy spirit ever flowed like generous wine, 

Flushed with the sunlight of our Southern land. 

Ill, 

Replete with all the graces that adorn — 
The tender, warm affections that endear — 

Thy presence, like the genial light of morn, 

Ne'er failed the strong or weak to charm or 
cheer ; 

And many a cup of comfort thou hast borne 
To liomeless haunts of poverty and fear. 



FAREWELL! 69 



IV. 

Thy pity was a pure and gusliing spring 

That watered many a withered wayside spot, 

Causing the bloom of lite again to tling 
Its healthful hue o'er deserts long forgot, 

Where want, despair, and sickness used to wring 
Their pallid hands, and mourn their hopeless lot. 

V. 

Of worth known only to a favored few 

Who love the light of Honor's open glance. 

Among the truest thou wast deemed as true ; 
And in the palmiest days of old romance. 

To right a cause, where such defence were due. 
No Cavalier e'er couched a readier lance. 



70 FAREWELL! 



VI. 



Country and kindred claimed thy warmest love, 
Which, like the flame of ancient altars, glowed 

With holiest tire descended from above, 
And in thy templed sonl found its abode, 

Fanned by the wings of that empyrean dove 
Which broods, they say, hard by the throne of 
God. 



VII. 



Sprung from a high-toned, patriotic race, 
Thou wast indeed a gallant gentleman ; 

And on thy peerless form and glorious f .ce, 
A seal, the cavilling world might freely scan, 

Was set by Nature, in her liberal grace 
To one who might have led her proudest van. 



FAREWELL! 71 



VIII. 

A very Faladin anK)ng tliy baud 

Of brave compeers — their captain, friend, and 
guide, 
There was not one wlio, at thy higli couinuind. 

Had feared in danger's darkest hour to ride, 
Agamst the spoilers of our prostrate hmd, 

Into the Maelstrom of the battle-tide. 

IX. 

And if thou wert their pride, no less were they 
Thy constant boast ; — 1 can recall the Hash 

Of thy proud glance, when I have heard thee say : 
"They are the boys for discipline and dash! 

Oh! how I long to lead them to the fray. 

And hear their shout above the clang and crash ! " 



72 FARE WELL I 



All this and more — so oft, I sometimes smiled 
At the recurrence of that favorite theme ; 

Though often er, by its eloquence beguiled, 
Have felt my spirit glide into thy dream, 

Noting its glowing pictures, as a child 
In silence marks the ripples of a stream. 

XI. 

But it is done — thy days are ended here — 

The tenderest hands have laid thy limbs to rest, 

The truest tears have fallen upon thy bier, 
The holiest rites thy cold remains have blest: 

What can we more, but hold thy memory dear. 
And strive to feel that even this is best? 



FAREWELL! 73 



xn. 



iSfot unremembered in thy ruined home, 

Widowed and fatherless, thj loved ones dwell ; 

Low-voiced regrets for thy too early doom, 

From far and near, around their hearthstone 
swell, 

And temper with true sympathy the gloom 
Which Time alone may lift, but ne'er dispel. 



XIII. 



Farewell ! that saddest word I now can speak, 
So late abjured by less familiar thought; 

I know my loss, and yet I am not weak : 

Thy death to me hath deeper knowledge brought- 

A patient sense, if not a spirit meek, 

For still I count such lesson dearly bought. 



74 FAREWELL! 



XIV. 

But we are joined in iieart now more than ever; 

And though at times I stretch mj hand in vain 
To meet thy clasp, I feel Death cannot sever 

The faithful and the true — there was no stain 
Upon our perfect love, whose like I never 

Can render or receive on earth a^ain ! 



NOTES. 



NOTES. 



POEM I. 

STANZA III.. PAGE 95. 

Oh ! painless release .' truly blessed relief .' 

I HAD an idea, at one time, of a brief memoir to accompany ttiese pages ; 
but this passing thought was speedily abandoned as unnecessary. The quiet, 
monotonous routine of man's every-day life has, properly speaking, no his- 
tory ; the most stirring portion of his was merged in the universal calamity 
that overwhelmed our ill-fated country on the failure of the Southern cause ; — 
the remainder would embrace little more than a harrowing detail of chronic 
anguish, sustained through many successive years with unparalleled patience 
and fortitude, which I naturally shrink from recapitulating here. His manifold 
and protracted sufferings are yet too fresh in the minds of those who loved him 
best. I have, therefore, barely alluded to them, and then only when the occa- 
sion seemed to render such reference almost unavoidable. But for the late 
war, which reared an impassable barrier of Are and steel between him and the 
only aid from which, had it been timely, he might have derived permanent 
benefit, I believe that he would still be among us. This, however, is one of 
those hitter reflections which, for the peace of our souls, we must endeavor to 
keep as far out of sight as possible. There is no remedy now, and we must 
seek for consolation where alone we may hope to find it. In reviewing the 
circumstances that attended his last hours, there is no small comfort to be 
gleaned from the assurance they afford, that his ultimate release from every 



78 NOTES. 



earthly affliction was sereaely peaceful, and entirely devoid of all sense of 
pain. For some days previous, he, as well as ourselves, had looked for the 
final result as likely to occur at almost any moment ; yet we little knew how 
near at hand it was. The summons was served so quietly, so quickly, and so 
surely, that, although in full possession of every mental faculty to the last in- 
stant of existence, I doubt if he had time enough to recognize the presence of 
the messenger ere the fatal errand was sped. 

N. B.— Since writing the foregoing, as I have been questioned in regard to 
the possible misinterpretation that might attach to the words " the only aid 
from which, had it been timely, he might have derived permanent benefit," I 
have only to say that nothing was or covild be farther from my thoughts than 
the idea of the slightest reflection upon the highly-respected and able body of 
gentlemen comprised in the Medical Faculty, of which my father was, at one 
time, the honored president, and my brother a much-esteemed member. I am 
pleased, however, that my attention has been called to the passage thus early, 
as it gives me the opportunity, on the one hand, to protest against all personal 
application of a remark which I intended to be as general as possible, and, on 
the other, to pay a just though humble tribute to an eminent surgeon, who 
stands, by universal admission, at the head of his profession in this country, 
and has no superior in any other. I allude to Dr. J. M. Carnochan (a Southron 
by birth and feeling), who attended the deceased to the last moment, and whose 
services were accompanied by a truly fraternal kindness in the rendering, that, 
entitles him forever to the warmest and most grateful remembrance of every 
member of our family. We have also to acknowledge our further obligations 
to him for the introduction of his experienced and learned associate, Dr. Rob. 
ert Nelson, who was equally assiduous in his attentions, when called in at a 
subsequent period of the case. 



STANZA IV., PAGE 36. 

To ivait and to watch by the dark river's shore. 

An allusion to a little allegory called " The Dark River," which seemed to 
have made a deep and lasting impression upon his imagination and his feelings. 



NOTES. Id 

POEM II. 

OUB HOPE — PAGE 81. 

Ou the iiiuer cover of his favorite Bible he had, in some sadder moment 
-'^^ of fjatsrnal retrospection, pasted our two little photographs, mine above his 
own, and connected them with tracings of leaves and flowers. Around the 
whole, encircling it, as it were, with the tenderest thought of his brotherly 
heart, the four lines of quotation were written, with the date appended, which 
gave occasion to the stanzas that immediately follow them. 



POEM V. 

THOUGHTS — PAGE 47. 

This and the subsequent stanzas entitled " Out of the World," were 
originally written as one poem, which was afterward divided into two, for the 
purpose of preserving a more perfect unity in each. The former has been 
allowed a place here in consequence of the connection in which it was con- 
ceived, and to which alone, in all probability, it owes its very existence. 



POEM VIII. 

STANZA II., PAGE 68. 

Thy spirit ever flowed like generous Wc... 
Whom shall we praise, if not those whom we love best, and who deserve all 
that we may have to say of them ? But as what is written in the form of verse 
is apt to be attributed to fancy rather than to fact, and the known partiality of 
the eulogist, even when admitted to be perfectly natural and excusable, is 
often received as an offset to his judgment, as if, in the nature of things, these 
qualities must, of necessity, be inversely proportional ; is it not well to fore- 
stall any such erroneous conclusions by an appeal to a few simple, incontro- 
vertible facts ? Not that I have the least apprehension that such errors could 
be indulged by, or have any weight with, any one of the original recipients to 
whom these pages will be presented as a token of our esteem and entire con- 



80 NOTES. 



fldence. But I am looking forward to a time which, though I trust it may be 
far remote, must sooner or later arrive, when these votive leaves, with all their 
holy memories and tender associations, will lapse from the careful hands that 
now hold them, and pass into those of others who, from want of accurate 
information, may adopt the ordinary fashion of the world's judgment in such 
cases. In the first place, then, let me say, simply for the truth's sake, that, 
after a calm and searching review of all that I have written concerning the de- 
ceased, I can conscientiously aver that I have failed to discover a single expres- 
sion or word savoring of exaggeration. He was acknowledged by all who 
knew him, as one at least of the most elegant and accomplished men of his 
time. In earlier life, before the insidious disease which finally destroyed him 
had fastened upon his system and sapped its health, strength, and energy, he 
was signally expert in all those athletic sports and exercises which are now 
universally conceded to be most favorable to the development of vigor, endur- 
ance, and manly grace, as well as the still more important qualities of courage, 
self-possession, and prompt action in the hour of peril, which, indeed, seem to 
be the natural sequences of such early training. To those persons who have 
never given this species of cultivation the consideration due to it in connection 
with its solid and often brilliant results, these details may appear trivial and 
out of place ; but a moment's investigation will redeem them from all such 
hasty disparagement, and place the system they illustrate on proper philo- 
sophical ground. A fine boxer, a complete master of the small-sword, a good 
shot at the target or in the field, and a perfect horseman, he was equally daring 
and skilful as a charioteer. A strong, bold swimmer in his better days, there 
were none of the modem imitators of the " venturous Leander " who would 
have discovered much to boast of in comparison with his prowess, which, on 
two memorable occasions in his youth, were crowned by the saving of human 
life. To all these rare and not merely physical advantages (so seldom found 
united in a single individual, and combined, as in his case, with a personal ap- 
pearance that challenged admiration at sight), were superadded the liberal 
education of a gentleman and the finished training of a soldier. He was a 
thorough mathematician and an able engineer ; well read in medical science, 
of which he bade fair to become a distinguished and leading practitioner (not 
unworthy to tread in paternal footsteps), had not his failing health interfered 
with the prosecution of his profession. At all events, such was the deliberate 
and often-expressed opinion of his father, who rarely erred in his impartial 



NOTES. 81 



judgment of men or things. He loved literature, to which most of his leisure 
was chiefly given— was passionately devoted to the arts, especially poetry, 
painting, and music, in the latter of which he attained a proficiency which left 
him but few rivals even among its acknowledged professors., and constituted 
him, of all the amateurs I ever knew, faciie jyrinceps. 

Of his genial social qualities it would be needless to speak in a community 
where they were so well known and appreciated by individuals of all classes. 
No man ever loved country and kindred better — few so ardently as he did ; and 
his fidelity in his friendships was never known to fail or falter in a single in- 
stance. 

On the basis of such facts as the foregoing — known to many, but to none 
^ better than my8elf-/l have founded this Memorial, ;«^hich I shall leave with but 
one solitary regret : that I have been unable to do that justice to the subject 
which it was the holiest and most fervent desire of my heart to accomplish. 
" Reddite Ccesari quce sunt Ccesaris.''^ 



STANZA VI., PAGE 70. 

Fanned by the wings of that empyrean dove. 

The dove is here used as the symbol of religion. The idea I desired to con- 
vey in this stanza is, that most of his feelings and tastes appeared to derive 
their warmest and purest glow ftom a higher source within, which imparted 
to his sense of " the beautiful and true," in all things, more or less of a spirit- 
ual character. 

His temperament was, beyond all question, a religious one, and for the 
faith of our mother he entertained the highest respect and veneration at all 
times. But it was during the term of his cadetship, at the Military Academy 
of West Point, that the original seed implanted in infancy by the tenderest 
maternity first gave evidence of germination. This result he attributed solely 
to the stirring eloquence of the Rev. Charles Petit Mcllwaine, then chaplain of 
the post (subsequently Bishop of Ohio), of whom it was his custom, ever after, 
ward, to speak in terms of unqualified admiration and grateful remembrance. 
These feelings remained with him from that time forward, and were fully de- 
veloped long ere the arrival of that day in which, according to his views, he 
had most need of them. That they were assuredly a comfort and support to 
him in his last earthly trial, I have every reason to believe. 
6 



82 NOTES. 

STANZA IX., PAGE Tl. 

Tliey are the boys for discipline and dash. 

Such were almost the identical words which he uttered on the occasion re- 
ferred to, some slight alteration only in their arrangement having been re- 
quired to accommodate them to the exigencies of rhyme and rhythm. I -have 
heard him say on various occasions, and with unmistakable emphasis, that 
he never yet saw the troop that was equal to the one which he commanded, 
and I am satisfied that he spoke from the conviction of a judgment not to be 
impeached in military matters. But his vdsh " to lead them in a charge " was 
never gratified. When war broke out between the North and the South, being 
entirely unfitted by his extreme feebleness of health from all active service in 
the field at the head of his company, where he most desired to be found at such 
a time, he procured an appointment on the stafl' of Major-General Gwynn, 
then in command of the forces lying in Norfolk Harbor. The following is the 
order under which he reported to that accomplished officer, true soldier, and 
gentleman. 

" Hbadquaetees, Major-Gen. Com. Forces in Norfolk Harbor, ) 
" Norfolk, Va., April 22rf, 1861. ) 

" R. E. EoEiNSON, Esq., Petersburg, Va., 
"Sir: 
" Prom special confidence and trust reposed in R. E. Robinson, he is hereby 
appointed in my Staff as aide-de-camp, with the rank of Colonel in the Army of 
Virginia, and is hereby required to report to me in person without delay. 
"I am, very respectfully, yours, &c., 
[signed] "Walter Gwynn, 

" Major-Gen. Com. Forces in Norfolk Harbor." 



STANZA XI., page 72. 

And strive to feel that even this is best. 

In the closing days of his illness, after he had become satisfied that recovery 
was hopeless, he often said to us, in accents of the deepest commiseration, 
" You must all try to make the best of it." These simple words seem, even at 
this day, to be whispering in our ears like a voice from another world. 



ERRATA. 
Page 13, 2d paragraph, 3d line, instead of 
self-respect, read resjoed. 

" 69, instead of Longfellow, read Tenny- 
son. 

" 80, 10th line from bottom, instead of 
were crowned, read was crowned. 



